Peter Corris - The Dying Trade

I leaned forward grasping at it. “Just a minute sir, two things. How could a number set him off?”

“Some of the files would have had a multiple zero number — parents unknown.”

“I see. Now, Haines was examined by psychologists?”

“Yes, several times. A team from the University was working on a study of orphaned children, their psychological problems and so on. They were very interested in Haines and examined him at some length. I can’t remember the details, I recall one of the team telling me that Haines was positive that his people were wealthy, substantial citizens, but that’s a very common complex I gather.”

“Was this examination done before or after the office sit-in?”

He raised his eyes to the sky, then glanced at his wife.

“Dear?”

“After, I think,” she said, “soon after.”

“I really can’t remember, Mr Hardy. I’d trust my wife’s recollection though, steel trap mind she has.”

I smiled. “I can see that,” I said glancing at the blocked in crossword. “It’s interesting, and fills in a lot of gaps.”

“I don’t know whether it will help you much though. Haines was a very complicated boy, an unusual individual in every way. I’m sorry to hear he’s in trouble, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

I was only half-listening now. “Oh, why’s that?”

“Colossal determination combined with a very passive, yielding streak. Very odd combination, unstable elements I’d say. No, I shouldn’t say that, that’s what the psychologist said.”

I nodded. “Were the results of this study ever published?”

“Yes,” he said, “in something called The Canadian Journal of Psychology. I understand it’s a periodical of repute. I’ve never read the paper, should have I suppose, but it was a full-time job running that place.”

“Will you have some coffee, Mr Hardy, or a drink, it’s after eleven?” Lady Cavendish obviously thought it was time to wind the show up.

“No thank you, I’ve taken up enough time and you’ve been very helpful.”

There must have been an inconclusive note in my voice because Cavendish leaned forward with a quiet smile on his face.

“But you haven’t finished?”

“No. You might think this impertinent, but I must ask you something else.”

“Let me guess,” he said. He got up and took a few springy steps across to where the lawn began, he bent down, picked up a pebble and juggled it up and down in his palm. “When we live in such style why did I spend twenty-five years running an orphanage?”

“Right,” I said.

“Easy,” he looked at his wife and they exchanged smiles, “we’ve only had this place for a couple of years and we’ll only have it a couple more the way the rates are going. I inherited it from an uncle, title too, the old boy lived to ninety-six, still thought of Australia as a colony. When I left the army, Mr Hardy, the deferred pay was negligible and I had a large, bright gaggle of a family to educate. The orphanage directorship was the best thing offering. I tried to do it in an intelligent fashion, it wasn’t always easy.”

“I’m sure you did,” I said. I got up and shook hands with them.

Cavendish flicked the pebble away, he looked sad. “You might drop me a line to let me know how it works out,” he said quietly.

I said I would. They walked with me down an overgrown path beside the house and we said our goodbyes near the front verandah. I went down the path to the gate and looked around before I opened it; they’d half-turned and he had his arm down across her thin, straight shoulders.

I drove back into town and checked out of the Colonial. The Avis people took their car back and gave me enough refund money to pay for a bottle of beer and a sandwich in the airport bar. I killed the waiting time there, pouring the Cooper’s ale carefully so as not to get the sediment, and pushing the crumbs of the sandwich around on my plate. I watched the sediment settle in the bottle thinking that the bits and pieces of this case were starring to settle into place, but not satisfactorily. The whole thing needed a violent shake if it was going to be resolved in the Gutteridge woman’s favour. I might have to give that shake myself, but I had a feeling that it might be done for me and pretty soon.

I finished the Forsyth book just before we landed at Mascot. I settled back into a taxi seat and almost fell asleep on the ride to Glebe. I kicked an old clothes appeal and several monster sale leaflets out of the doorway and stomped through the kitchen to make some coffee. I dumped the overnight bag under the table knowing that it’d stay there for days and hating myself for it. A newsboy yelled out in the street and I went out to the gate and bought a paper. I read it while I drank the coffee — the election was still in doubt, there was an earthquake in Greece, a cricketer had his shoulder packed in ice and Dr Ian Brave was still being hunted by the police. I finished the coffee and the telephone rang. I grabbed it and got Ailsa’s voice, panicky and barely coherent over the wire.

“Cliff, Cliff, thank Christ, I’ve been ringing for hours and minutes… no…”

“Hold it, Ailsa, hold it. Where are you?”

“Hospital. I’ve seen Brave.”

“What!” I shouted. “Where?”

“Here, right here. I saw him when I was going to the toilet. He didn’t see me, but Jesus I went cold all over. It took me a while to calm down and ring you and you weren’t there!” Her voice went up to the panic level again.

“I’m just back from Adelaide. Look, when was this?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t know the time. Half an hour ago?”

“What was Brave doing?”

“He was leaving, but I know what he had been doing.”

“What?”

“Seeing Susan.”

I let out a breath and my mind went blank.

“Cliff, Cliff!”

I came back and muttered something into the phone. She almost screamed the thing apart.

“What are you going to do?” Her anger and fear pulled me together. I got some control into my voice, told her I was getting a gun and lots of help and that everything would be all right. She wasn’t happy but she rang off after I promised to call her as soon as anything happened.

I got the Colt out of the oilskin cloth I’d wrapped it in and pushed the cloth back behind the bookshelf. I grabbed an old army jacket with deep zipped pockets and headed for the back courtyard. Before I reached the door the phone rang again.

“Sweet suffering Jesus,” I shouted into it, “what?”

“Hardy, it’s Tickener. I’ve just seen Brave.”

“Shit, not again, where? No, don’t tell me, at the hospital.”

“Right, how did you know?”

“Never mind, how did you get on to him?”

“I’ve been following that black girl, you know, Pali?”

“Yeah, and…?”

“She came streaking out of her flat, first time she’s been there in days. I picked her up in Redfern, spotted the car. Then she drove to the hospital and picked up Brave. I’ve got them both in sight but they’re going to split. He’s hiring a car. Who should I stay with?”

“What else have they done?”

“ She went to a bank.”

“Who’s holding the money?”

“He is, she handed it over to him.”

“Stay with him, he’s going for a fix. I know where she’s going. See you.” I hung up and belted out to the car. In the rear vision mirror I saw a drawn, yellowish face that looked tired and frightened.

A different black kid was playing ball against the same wall when I pulled into Haines’ street. I drove around the back and saw that his car slot was occupied by a white Mini. I parked up near the end of the street beside a set of sandstone steps which led up an embankment and ended with an iron railed landing a good thirty feet up from street level. I got the jacket from the back seat of the car and the Colt from under the dashboard. I put the gun in a pocket, slung the jacket over my shoulder and went up the steps. The landing was overhung with shrubs that had rooted in the thin soil of the embankment. It was after six o’clock and the sun was just starting to sneak down to the high points of the building line. I hung the jacket on the railing, rolled and lit a cigarette and waited.